


Never

by SixSilver



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Dean Winchester, Alpha Sam Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Beta Jessica Moore, M/M, Omega Castiel, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:56:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4455710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SixSilver/pseuds/SixSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A large-scale pandemic has left the world wreaked havoc, infested with flesh-eating, walking dead that plague cities and country alike. Nowhere seems safe for Castiel whose life has become a day-to-day struggle as he wanders, alone, across fields and groves, fearing the grasps of Roamers as badly as those of actual live people... until he meets a party of ten who assail and abduct him, bringing him back to their camp. These people do not seem to agree on semantics, nevertheless, and Castiel will have to fight to return to his precarious life on the roads... or let his guard down, compromise and make a home among Alphas and Betas he doesn't trust.</p><p>* * *</p><p>A/B/O Dynamic fic in a Zombie Apocalypse setting with possible triggers to come. I've pre-tagged the basics according to what I'll possibly write and will update if need be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Castiel Visits North Grove

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been meaning to write an A/B/O fic for a while, except I have strayed pretty far from what I first intended, first imagined, from the fandom to the setting... Whoops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For now, this work is un-beta'ed so, chances are, there will be mistakes, especially as it's been years since I last wrote anything, let alone in English... Feel free to tell me what is wrong as I am open to criticism when constructive!

  


* * *

  


_Never_ had long become a motto for Castiel: _never stop_ , _never wait_.   _Never hope_ , _never dream_.  Never _ever_ even begin to have faith in anyone.  He was pretty close to adding _never sleep_ to the list, were it feasible — yet rest was, _sadly_ , still a necessity and it came in the form of short dozes, preferably up in trees, roped to a branch: a trick to keep him away, at least, from the grasps of Roamers...

...the grasps of actual live people being a whole, other matter.

That, too, was a never — _never again_.

Never _ever_ again.

Because there were days when Roamers were a lot less fearsome than people.

Today, nevertheless, was not one of these days: Castiel had been on the road for a week, walking, always walking, never stopping, and food was getting scarce.  Food always got scarce, and rabbits, even scarcer; and _never eat_ was still as regrettably impossible as _never sleep_.  A trip in the next town was hence in order — and that was North Grove according to the map he’d found in a small, red RV he had raided three months ago.

Castiel gripped his spear a little tighter.  It was a stick, really, with a kitchen knife fastened at the tip with duct tape.  A lot of duct tape.  Because duct tape fixed everything and he needed everything to be fixed, especially when he had to visit Roamer-infested places, _alone_.

He sighed: never want, never long.

 _And alone_ is _good_ , he chastised himself: people cheated and lied and deceived and hurt; and when they were not doing these things, then they were dead, either killed by Roamers or killed by people — both alternatives equally horrid.  So alone _was_ good.

Alone was _very_ good.

Even if it made his days longer.

Even if it made his nights darker.

Even if it made visiting North Grove _terrifying_.

Never need.  Never _ever_ need.  Except that, too, was on the goddamn list of infeasible nevers — so _never cry_ instead.  Never cry because, beside being useless, it was a waste of water, especially when the sun took its daily toll.  Never _ever_ cry because he needed food, he needed water, he needed to make that stop at North Grove.

 _Never cry_.

His eyes stayed dry.  Dry and alert, flicking left and right as he approached the outskirts of the little town, flicking to the picket-fenced dwellings on its edge, noticing doors wide open, spotting a few dead Roamers here and there: _already raided_.  Fuck.  He needed to go a little deeper in.   _A little bit, only a little bit_.

He held his breath, his steps cautious in the eerily quiet streets, fringed with birdless trees and hedges grown wild.  His knuckles were white on his makeshift spear, eyes darting to every bush, every shaded corner, expecting monsters to come out and play.

They, too, had a long list of nevers: never stop, never sleep, never rest.  Never need, never long.  Never ever feel.

No one seemed to know how the pandemic had started, two summers ago; the world had gone rabid in a matter of days, the illness so aggressive, it had spread like wildfire.  The infected were always asymptomatic till the twelfth hour; then dizziness and drowsiness took over, and a fever broke out by the fifteenth hour.

Technically, people were not dead when they woke up — not _yet_ , anyway; they were still somewhat capable of speech, somewhat capable of logical thought; they were fast and their reflexes were sharp; and they were desperately famished for flesh — _human_ flesh.

Technically… technically, people were not dead when they woke up... but they were gone — mere shells with bits and pieces of words and memories that withered as their bodies weakened and decayed and died; _then_ , they were dead — _walking_ dead: Roamers.  Flesh-eating, famished Roamers.

Castiel edged deeper into the narrow streets, body so tense, he trembled, pervading the air with fear and stress, leaving a trail of reek that might have led the Roamers right to him if not for the cool breeze that blew against him. He dared not press his fortune too far, though — _no farther than the first place with a closed door_... because who ever closed doors when they’d bagged everything worth?

So first place with a closed door it was, pray there were no monsters; he would raid it and leave it in less than an hour, leave North Grove faster than he had found his way in, and eat less and drink less and space out still a little more those too often needed visits to town.  His rabbit heart raced recklessly against his chest.

He had never dared slip alone in any town this far — because _two streets in_ was already _too far in_ , the neat rows of one- and two-story houses a solid block in his back, preventing any chance of a rapid back-pedal escape; and _first place with a closed door_ was freaking too deep in.  Yet, once he had spotted the little white house with a gray tile roof, right before the corner, _over there_ , with grass growing long and green, and a rose shrub infringing on the steps to the porch, he felt too close to go back — so he edged on, blade sharp and ready, eyes still darting, till he reached up the porch.

Pressing his back to the wall, Castiel peeked in through the window, between the drapes.  At first glance, the living room seemed empty, frozen in time, even: there were two mismatched mugs on the coffee table; a throw pillow fallen at the foot of the large, yellow sofa; stacks of books and papers on the sideboard; and no tell-tale evidence of a struggle that might indicate the presence of a Roamer reaching for food — reaching for a non-infected person, whoever they may be, friends and family included.

Still, Castiel was wary: an apparent absence of scramble was no Roamer-free warranty.

Cagily, he reached for the doorknob, the brass cold under his fingers; cautiously, he let the panel fall ajar...

...and sliced his blade through the opening.

The knife met no resistance, stabbing only air — the foyer, too, was empty.  Remaining ever guarded, nevertheless, he entered the hallway stealthily, the door promptly closed.

He noted the portraits straight away — framed photographs hanging on the wall: a family of five; three kids: two girls, one boy, the eldest maybe fifteen or sixteen… She peered back at him with a large, dark doe eyes, a smear of blush on her razor-sharp cheekbones, olive complexion smooth and perfect: _an Omega_.

An Omega.

An Omega.

An _Omega_ — because her features were too fair, her frame too slight, her looks too breath-taking for her to be anything else: there was a reason the variation was informally referred to as ‘the gene of beauty’.

 _Never hope_ , _never want_ , _never long_ — and yet, Castiel could barely repress the sliver of hope burgeoning from the garden of his soul: if she had been an Omega, as he believed her to be, then maybe, _please-pretty-please maybe_ , there were scent-blockers and suppressors stored here somewhere — _never ever hope_ — and he would triple check every room if need be because he _had_ to have them!

Heart hammering wildly, he knocked the blunt tip of his stick twice on the floor: Roamers were unfailingly attracted to noise and, if there were any, they would come straight to him — and maybe that was a bad idea because he could not handle more than two Roamers if they came too fast together, especially in his sleep- and food-deprived state...

...but they never came: there were no monsters under the beds or hiding in the pantry. The little white house with the gray tiles, _first place with a closed door_ , was empty — and relief cascaded over Castiel as he cleared the last room, the breath he had held at last exhaled. He leaned against the doorframe of the master bathroom, needing a moment’s rest to stop his heart beating so hard against his chest.

He could see himself in the mirror, haunted, cobalt blue eyes, ringed with fatigue, that gazed back bleakly. He had lost weight, his face gaunt, cheeks hollowed, pale skin blemished with dirt and marred with cuts, tight on bones; his frame once toned and lean had thinned down, body taut from months of both relentless walking and lack of food.

There were days when he wondered if all this was really worth it; if there was a reason to _keep on_ when his efforts were rewarded with only more stress and constant fear — and yet, he never stopped walking, never stopped pressing on forward: he was too weak; too weak to end his miserable life, too weak to let the monsters, whether dead or alive, have their wicked ways with him...

...he was weak and a coward at heart...

He dropped his gaze to the floor — he had other, better things to do than look himself in the eyes.

_Like raiding this place, top to bottom._

He pushed himself from the door and went for the laundry basket he had spotted by closet.

He filled it too fast, loaded it too heavily; he always did, because everything always seemed worth taking: from the basic necessities — bottled water, protein bars, cans, mixes and formulas; to little comforts — fresh pairs of socks, a clean shirt and even toothpaste; to every useful tool anyone in a zombie apocalypse should carry with them — scissors, knives, pliers, a can opener; and little whatnots — matches, face wipes, nail clipper; there was a lot to have...

...except, he was alone; and alone meant sacrificing some cans and that extra tool; choosing between food and meds and comfort and whatnots: he could not let the weight of his backpack slow his escape if — _when_ — he needed to run.

The scent-blockers were an obvious keep — all five sticks — as were the suppressors and the vitamins pills. As odd as the latter pick seemed, he knew he needed them, especially when he could not eat sufficiently, let alone properly; and they were lighter than cans. He packed the bags of dried apples and apricots; powdered soups and breakfast mixes; some corned beef and some canned beans. What he could not take, he lightly snacked on: almonds; some stale cereals; and one exquisite spoonful of rich and creamy peanut butter — he had missed it… He had _so_ missed it, he did not resist: after a moment of inner battling and hesitation, he slipped the jar in his pack.

Leaving, strangely, was a little hard. Maybe it was because he had not come across any Roamer — as if he had, at last, found a safe place; and that feeling tugged on his forbidden list of wants and longs and needs; on the twelve-hour sleep he craved in a real bed and the three meals a day he dreamed of; on a quiet life, hidden away from the world...

It was a deceptive feeling, unfortunately: towns, all towns, were infested with Roamers and he was too deep in; they would eventually end up walking aimlessly up to his doorstep and he would be trapped in; and the food would not last forever.

No, it was better to leave, to leave _now_ , before they came. To crumple that damn, impossible list and not look back. Never look back. He held his breath in and opened the door...

He could feel, he could _hear_ his heart beating hard as soon as he was back in the streets of North Grove, trees overhead rustling gloomily under the breeze as though they were bristling from his presence. The need to run pricked his legs yet he pressed it back down, the necessity to be cautious overruling: a hasty escape was a reckless escape, especially when he could not see beyond the block of houses closely packed before him.

Still, he edged his way back a bit too fast, fear and stress twisting his stomach into knots. Maybe he could run once he was past the corner; the street did curve a little, visibility slightly impaired, yet it led straight out of North Grove — out into open fields where he could see anything approaching at a distance and plan his escape accordingly...

He could run…

He _would_ run...

He stopped dead at the corner.

 _Fuck_.

He barely repressed a whimper, pressing back against the hedge.

Two blocks ahead, ten, maybe twelve Roamers were blocking his way.

 _Trapped_ — his body tensed, his grip on his spear tightened.

_Think._

They had not seen him — not yet anyway.

Part of him wanted to go back — to go back to the little white house, where he would be safe and warm and happy, where the monsters could not get him; to go back to what was nothing else than a live _trap_ , another part of him protested: he would never be able to leave if he did so.

Maybe he could still run...

Maybe he could get past them — they did not seem in too good shape; they would be slow.

He could still run.

He could get out.

Outrun them on the road.

He was pushed to the ground, breath knocked out his frame, before he even started.

 _Panic_ — a hand came over his mouth, his nose, blocking both the scream in his throat and his airway — he instinctively gripped the arm, nails digging through the fabric as he thrashed fiercely, _helplessly_ — the man had a vise grip on him, his arms pressed firmly against his own chest as he was being dragged away, warm breath on the side of his neck as his assailant growled against his ear — growls which might have been words; yet, through the haze of his terror, Castiel could not distinguish anything but a deep, indistinct rumble — and as the oxygen died in his lungs, so did the adrenaline in his veins, till the spots before his eyes took over and he blacked out.

  


* * *

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is not as long as I wished it were, but, for now, I am opting for short installments about this length because they take less time to write and I'd like to keep updates regular... though if I can make them longer or if they need to be longer, I will definitely try!


	2. In Which The North Grove Raid Goes Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I want to thank all of you who took the time to read, bookmark, leave a kudo and/or a comment! It's always very exciting to see that people are interested!
> 
> I was hoping to post a chapter once a week but I should have known it would take me a little more time, especially as I've been trying to do some world building on the side: I'm making up quite a lot of original characters because, this being a zombie Apocalypse, I figured the boys shouldn't be all peachy and happy with their friends. I do intend to bring a few other Supernatural characters, though; but that's for later!
> 
> Once again, it's not a perfect chapter because it is still un-beta'ed and my writing skill are pretty rusty; but I'll get there... eventually!

  


* * *

  


_The fuck...?_

“Oh, my God —”

“— please don’t tell me he wants to make that run —”

“He’s gonna get himself killed!”

“Fuck that, he’s gonna get _this party_ killed!”

North Grove’s raid had actually meant to be a reconnaissance more than anything else: a ten-men party to assess its level of risk, map out its main arteries and locate key areas.  It was the drill whenever they checked out new towns so that, when they came back, they’d be better prepared; they’d know where to get things and how to get there; and they’d have more than one escape plan, case need be.

They had become rather methodic — had to be, really — and proceeded with a care that bordered on extreme: for one, roles were assigned so that everyone knew what they and the others were expected to do; and explorations were done in quartets, street by street, to lay them down on paper, along with shops and grocers’ and drugstores and exits: you don’t go raiding a place and risk causing a ruckus by walking in on the dead when you don’t know your ways in and out — that was plain _idiotic_.

And idiots never lasted long.

As the guy across the street was clearly about to demonstrate.

Dean’s jaw clenched: that fool was actually _debating_ on his chances — as if he freaking had _any_ against the scattered twenty Walkers blocking his escape; against the other twelve in the street a block ahead, crawling their way up...

“I can take him out — before they see him.”

Dean’s gaze tore away from the scene and flicked to Kenneth’s form, perched over Beth as she gasped, “What?”

Crossbow aimed at the man across, a large bush hiding him from the monsters, the Beta had his finger pressed lightly over the trigger as he waited for their agreement.

In its place came a distinctive protest as Sam hissed, _“No!”_

They were crouched in a narrow, grassy alley between two houses, framed by picket fences, hedges spilling over them.  Sam was pressed back against one of the corners, Dean on his right, while Beth squat facing them, her clipboard clutched against her chest.  She’d stopped mapping, pencil all but forgotten between her fingers.

“He goes for it, we’re all dead.”

Kenneth still had his crossbow leveled, stance locked.

They weren’t prepared to fight that many Walkers alone: engaging large groups was always a last resort alternative — who knew how many other monsters roamed in the streets of North Grove?  How many more would come, hearing his screams as he got mercilessly bit and clawed and ripped into pieces?

“We are _not_ committing murder,” persisted Sam through gritted teeth.

“It’s _not_ ,” countered Kenneth, tone disturbingly calm.  “Guy’s got a death wish; we’re just delivering a quick one.”

Except, it wouldn’t be — nor quick nor clean nor humane: the guy would have to go down _silently_ , and _that_ was what they’d deliver; an arrow through his _throat_ because arrows weren’t bullets and chances Kenneth would hit his heart straight through his ribs were too slim, no matter how skilled he was.  It would be bloody and gruesome and achingly too long.

But maybe a little less horrid than being torn apart by Walkers.

 _Not murder_ , not _quite_ murder.

Not that Dean hadn't killed before; he _had_ — for Sammy, for the people he’d walked with, for the camp; and he’d do it all over again: when men and women became a menace, danger looming over their heads, there was no hesitating — hell, putting down and finishing off Walker after Walker, day after day, it had practically become a reflex: eliminate the threat before it gets you, whether monster, human or fucking traitor — they all went down.

The man across the street, though... he was not a threat: he was a fool.  A damn, _suicidal_ fool that was about to set the Walkers on fire: people — _food_ — sprang the monsters back to life from their daze; blood, though, never satiated them and they’d be on the chase for a while, looking for more food, attracting more Walkers in their wake…

That was how herds formed.

That was why finishing off the easy, lone targets was a preemptive imperative.

Did stupidity, too, deserve a preemptive termination?

“He doesn’t know we’re here — hasn’t seen us — maybe if he knew — maybe we could —”

Beth seemed to struggle with words.  She was a quiet one, a young, soft-spoken beta forced out of school and childhood by the Apocalypse.  Dean had actually objected when she’d asked to go on raids: she looked so innocent, her frame so small, still soft with baby fat.  He’d been so wrong: spending a year out there, chased by Walkers, had lit a fire in her; she’d become a fighter, a good one, and what she lacked in strength, she made up for in fieriness.

“We can’t, Beth…”

And he was sorry; but attempting to attract the man’s attention might attract the Walkers', too.  That would be a bad move.

He was beginning to wonder if there was any other solution than Kenneth’s...

 _“Fuck that,”_ spat Sam.

He launched himself across the street in one swift move, all power and speed, before any of them could react; and Dean was left grasping air, a moment too late.

_“Sam!”_

Kenneth cursed under his breath, lowering his weapon for a second before redirecting it towards the monsters, right on time to see the moving herd from the intersecting street ahead spill into the open — _fuck!_

Dean gazed back in horror at his brother, heart hammering as Sam wrestled the feral cat of a stranger who thrashed and writhed, coiling and twisting his in grip — damn bastard was panicking!  Elbows flew out briefly as Sam pulled them back up from the ground but he promptly pinned them against the other man’s chest, one hand covering his mouth.

Despite their evident size difference, his brother had to use his _whole_ body, his embrace encompassing both the smaller man _and_ the pack on his back.  His hold slipped twice as the idiot kicked wildly, back arched as he attempted to tear himself away.  Still, Sam managed to drag them back around the corner, away from the monsters’ sight, before wrapping his legs around the other’s, chest heaving.

“If the Walkers don’t get his ass, I am so killing your brother when we get back,” growled Kenneth, ire seeping despite the quiet in his voice.

“Shut up,” Dean snapped back.

No matter how badly he wanted to beat Sam twelve ways to Sunday, no one was allowed to mess with his not so little brother.

“They didn’t see them — they still don’t know we’re here,” Beth whispered, ignoring their comments.  “They’re okay.”

Or not: the Walkers were now practically twice as many, regrouping in the curve of the street.  There was no way they could cross the street back unseen, this time.

Across, Sam had stopped fighting the other man and, fingers on his throat, was _checking for a damn pulse_ — awesome!  He’d fucking managed to kill him!  There’d be no hesitating next time and Kenneth would so be shooting his arrows at whoever needed to go down before their idiocy got them dead!

“Who’s okay?” queried a hushed voice behind them.

Kenneth spinned around the fastest, crossbow immediately leveled at the men already half way down the alley.

“ _Fuck_ , Paul!”

Dean loosened the knuckle-white grip he’d instinctively tightened on his machete: it was the rest of their party.

“What are you doing here?” he asked back, annoyed.

They’d split up in two groups to cover more areas, not encroach on each other’s neighborhoods.

“Saw a small herd comin’ up your way,” retorted Nevada caustically as Paul completely ignored him: “Where’s Sam?”

Dean glared. At Paul, at Nevada, at the two others, and at the archer who nodded towards the corner across.

Paul raised an eyebrow. He carefully edged his way to them and crouched down besides Beth, a gentle hand absently placed on the Beta’s knee.

“Winchester…,” he started, clearly amused, “Why is your brother getting all comfy with another man on the other side of the street?”

Right. Because that was exactly how Sam looked, a stranger settled between his legs, the smaller man’s back pressed against his chest. Soft snickers filled the alley behind him and Dean groaned.

“He’s _not_.”

Paul’s lips twitched into a grin which he flashed at Beth; his blue eyes sparkled as a blush crept over the beta’s cheeks. Dean glared even harder as the Alpha cast her a wink full of mischief: they did _not_ have time that — whatever _that_ was.

“The herd you saw just joined the lot that was already up here,” Kenneth interrupted. “Thirty-two heads total, now.”

“Makes roughly five head between the seven of us,” stated Nevada, obviously not including Sam. “We can take them down.”

“Not if they all come together,” disagreed Dean. “We’ll be better off if we split and attack from two sides. That’ll confuse them.”

Paul acquiesced with a nod. “We’ll move two blocks ahead and work from there, then.” His gaze flicked from the Walkers back to Beth, warm and softened. “Time to put that map away,” he all but purred. _Jesus!_ Could this guy stop flirting? And stop telling _his_ team member what to do? Dean was seriously going to have to talk to Beth when they got back.

“She knows, Paul,” he hissed for now, giving the Beta a pointed look.

Her blushed deepened as she slipped the map and pencil away in her pack and swapped them for a long machete, its blade slightly curved into an S.

“Yeah…” Paul smiled. “Just be ready,” he went on. “The boys will be the ones to start the attack when we get there.”

Dean looked over at ‘the boys’, two, grown-ass Alpha twins, barely a year younger than he was — yeah, he seriously did _not_ want to know what Paul thought of him; Paul who wasn’t that much older than them, anyway. The men didn’t seem offended, though: they stood side by side, faces impassive and crossbows in hands; they might have well been two look-alike wax statues, they were so still. Disquietingly so. But then again, they always were: Dean didn’t even know their names because they went by their last’s — _Smith_. As in _Smith & Smith_. They didn’t seem to care to be told apart and, overall, people had stopped trying because speaking to one was the same as speaking to the two of them: they were connected, even more so than he and Sammy were — and he and Sammy were damn close.

“We’ll be,” Kenneth stated simply.

Dean kept his gaze on the twins. Unlike the Beta archer, who’d picked his crossbow up a month after the outbreak, these two had practiced archery for years. The Apocalypse had merely fine-tuned their medal-award skills and they now worked together like a well-oiled machine, aim wicked and deadly. So, as uncomfortable as they made him, Dean was glad they were here, strong assets that had his back even though they were not in the same group; and they knew better than anyone else what his brother meant to him.

“Move over to Dean, Beth,” Kenneth ordered the Beta when Paul moved back.

She scooted across, besides Dean, and he took her place, getting into position. Dean had a hard time picturing the guy as the tax counselor Kenneth White had been once upon a time: he looked a little too comfortable in this life for someone who’d been cooped up in an office all day long prior the outbreak; but the white collar had become a good fighter and a remarkable marksman. If Dean hadn’t been able to smell him, he could have even sworn he was an Alpha.

It made sense, said Sam: in the world’s new context, soft, weak people didn’t survive — you needed to be strong; you needed to be fast; you needed to make prompt decisions, and they needed to be the right ones.

The Apocalypse had been harsh to Betas: once the most common variation, their numbers had rapidly dwindled, their percentage now more or less equal to Alphas’. Omegas, who’d always been a rarer variation, now seemed practically non-existent. Hell, the closest thing _they_ had to an Omega at camp was Nevada — and she was, at the same time, _the furthest thing_ from an Omega.

It was a scary realization: after centuries of being on top of the food chain, humanity had become an endangered species, some of its representatives practically if not entirely extinct. Worse: whatever virus was at the bottom of the Apocalypse, it had turned mankind into its own, ultimate predator.

“I’ll take down the Walker with a blue jacket first,” Kenneth informed them, peeking around the corner, always focused on task. “I’ll let you take care of the guy next to him and the limping women…”

Dean nodded, whispering to Beth that he’d take the guy as Kenneth went on:

“Then I’ll try to get the one with the cap and the big one on the right… We’ll see how things play out after that — hopefully, the confusion will scatter them a little…”

“Probably will,” asserted Dean. “These Walkers look long dead.”

Most would barely have basic thought capacities. Kenneth acquiesced wordlessly, gaze never leaving the monsters.

Dean was more distracted, his eyes darting back every now and then to his brother. Sam had recovered from his wrestling and was pulling the stranger into a fireman’s carry. He’d be mobile again. And look a lot less cozy.

“Here it goes.”

His attention was instantly brought back to the Walkers. The Smith twins had already shot two down and the guy with the blue jacket was falling to the ground as he threw himself out in the street, closely followed by Beth.

He slashed through the limping woman as she came towards him, Beth plunging her blade through her skull a second later. He was already moving to the guy, though; he sliced his head, jumped over the motionless body of a another monster, and buried his machete in the brains of yet second as a third Walker closed on him. An arrow took him down before he could kick him away and pull his his blade out of the other.

He moved on, swinging his blade at the next monster. In the corner of his eye, he vaguely registered his brother joining them; there was no time to think about it, though, as two more Walkers neared him. He jumped to the side, using the closest one as a shield, and stabbed the underside of his jaw, his machete piercing straight into his head. A foot on his stomach had him stumbling back on the other Walker as his blade slipped out in the motion. Beth was on the second before he could get to him.

He raised his weapon again, looking for his next target — but the assault was already over and the monsters all down on the ground. He double checked anyway, looking at the faces still up: Beth next to him, check; Paul, doing the same as him, check; Nevada and the twins on the other side, check; Kenneth, retrieving his arrows, check; and Sammy, definitely check.

“Everyone okay?” he asked.

Now was a good time to mention a bite or a scratch, even if they’d be checked later on. Thankfully, there were only nods. They were good.

“Let’s get going, then,” Paul advised. “We’re done here and we still need to get some supplies back.”

He was right.

“Princess is back in the alley,” motioned Kenneth as they started back.

“I’ll get him,” Sam answered.

As though anyone else would volunteer to carry him.

“Damn right,” mumbled Dean.

“Who’s he, anyway?” inquired Nevada before Paul could, the Alpha just as curious as her. The twins, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to care less; they surveyed the neighborhood as the rest of them gathered at the mouth of the narrow passage.

Dean pressed his lips into a thin line. He didn’t want to answer that: it would be non productive and might just get Sam into trouble. Kenneth simply shrugged.

“Someone who needed our help,” Sam stated as he carefully turned the man to his stomach and heaved him up against his chest. His hazel eyes flicked to Beth who squeaked a small, “Yes.” Bitch knew who to get to side with him.

“What happened to him?” probed on Paul.

The team remained utterly quiet on that one and Sam shot the Alpha an annoyed glare as he lifted the man on his shoulders, hooking his right arm at the crook of his knee.

“I may have attempted to muffle any startled cry a little too well,” he admitted through gritted teeth.

Paul raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. Nevada snorted.

Dean rolled his eyes. These two had a way of getting onto his nerves. “Let’s go,” he pressed them before they could say anything. “Beth, pull your map back out.” He didn’t want Paul to tell her to, either.

“There was a convenience store, that way,” she told them as she slipped her clipboard out of her bag. “Five streets down,” she added after a quick study of her work.

They followed her lead, Kenneth two steps ahead of her. Dean walked next to his brother, eying the stranger on his back. He was a small man, lean and slender, a mop of black, oily hair hiding is already tucked away face. He couldn’t get a clear scent out of him, either, too many smells intermingling. Dirt and grime were definitely part of the combo, though, tinged with fear.

He looked up and caught Sammy’s eyes fixed on him. His brother appeared to look for something as he studied his face and Dead frowned his incomprehension. That seem to answer a question because Sam finally shook his head in a way that said “later”. Dean didn’t insist.

“There,” Nevada indicated the store with her chin.

Dean was the first to reach the door. “Pulls out,” he said, before banging on the glass. Paul came besides him while Nevada walked to the other side, a little further away. They waited as the Walkers inside made their way to the glass panel. Dean counted them: “I see three heads.”

Kenneth, positioned ten feet away, leveled his crossbow. “Ready,” was all he said.

Dean tugged the door ajar, feeling the monsters pushing to get their way through on their side. They’d expected that and he and Paul pushed back, letting them crack the door open so only one could come out at a time. Kenneth shot the first straight in the eye and the Walker fell heavily to the floor as the next one stumbled over him. Nevada finished him and the other one off in one move: she was swift. Swift and lethal.

“Go,” she told the men, after the briefest pause. They opened the door wider and she slipped in, closely followed by Dean and Kenneth. They cleared the room and back room in less than a minute: no other monster was hiding inside.

They wouldn’t be able to empty the store today so they took what they needed most and hadn’t gone past its expiry date: mostly canned goods; dried beans; pasta; flour. Dean saw Nevada near the cash register, bagging protein and candy bars, and he helped himself, too, before they all disappeared. The woman snorted but made no further comment.

They left the shop twenty minutes later, packs full and heavy. Other stops were obviously not on the agenda; not after they’d unloaded back at the cars. They made their way there silently, Kenneth a couple steps ahead of Beth, again, while Dean was at Sammy’s side. He’d taken his brother’s bag as he already had his hands full with the stranger’s — not to mention that very stranger’s weight on his shoulder.

“You guys, okay?” called Eric, one of the drivers, when they saw the two groups coming together, which was unusual.

“Peachy,” was Nevada’s stinging retort.

“Who’s that?” Joseph, the other driver, asked as he opened the bed of the black pickup.

No one really bothered giving him a straight answer. Dean’s group stayed quiet while Paul chirped, “Sam got himself a buddy.”

Nevada climbed into the bed of the truck and she passed along two large storing boxes they’d come with. She was opening her bag when Sam gingerly lowered his precious cargo next to her.

_“Wow.”_

That had come from Nevada but it pretty much summarized the group’s reaction as a whole as they all stopped and stared:

“An Omega.”

Not just an Omega — a _male_ Omega. They were even rarer than their female counterparts.

Dean was gaping. Just a little. It might have taken a nudge and a pointed look from Sam to stop. Paul, Eric and Joseph were all still gawking at the unconscious man, though; even Nevada had a smirk. Only the twins appeared absolutely indifferent.

“It’s not because he looks like one that he is one,” Kenneth quietly objected before looking Nevada in the eye: “You aren’t one.”

She snorted. “Sure, Ken.”

Nevada was a rather unique package, as she called herself: Omega-bodied, Betaed-scented, Alpha-minded; the best of three worlds, according to her. Obviously, she was just a Beta; but her sharp, elegant features made her look Omega and her abrasive personality competed with most of the Alphas. She was a combination probably even rarer than Omega males.

“Hey, that’s not yours,” protested Sam as she took the man’s backpack, away from his reach.

“Just looking,” she huffed, zipping it open. She triumphantly retrieved two sticks of scent-blockers.

“Knew a Beta who used them, too,” shrugged Kenneth as she rummaged some more. “They do damper emotional scents a little. He said there were less Walkers that went for him.”

“Perhaps,” conceded Nevada, fishing out a small, medical, plastic bottle, “But did that Beta also take heat suppressors?”

Yeah… Definitely an Omega.

Kenneth remained silent, lips tightly pressed together.

“Put that back,” Dean barked sternly. “What he is doesn’t matter anyway.”

Because it didn’t. Not really. Even if he’d been staring.

Nevada rolled her eyes but placed everything back into the pack. Eric looked sheepish while Joseph was now staring at the ground. The twins seemed bored out of their minds.

“We should get going,” Paul reminded them. “We haven’t quite finished.”

For once, Dean was grateful for the other Alpha’s intervention.

“We’ll figure it out back at the Waterhouse,” he added.

Though what there was to figure out, Dean didn’t know.

  


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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do realize that this chapter and the first should have been one single installment; unfortunately, I have to admit I don't know exactly where I am going — but I'm still moving forward and I figured it's okay because it means faster updates even if the chapters are smaller. I'm actually happy because I've written about 1,500 more words for this one; so, hopefully, it makes up a little for the over-one-week-long update!


	3. In Which They Return to the Waterhouse with an Extra Passenger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As someone said, "It's not perfect but it's mine, so I like it."
> 
> In all honesty, it deserved more editing, and I wished it were longer: I haven't reached 5K words yet. Next time, hopefully!
> 
> Again, thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read, bookmark, leave a kudo and/or comment! Those really make my day!

  


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There was barely repressed wariness in the bleak, grayish-blue eyes of the Beta archer as they rode back to camp, the pickup filled with tensed quiet: Beth was pressed against the door, as if attempting to use as less space as possible; Sam kept his gaze out the window, on the stretches of fields and neglected crops and scattered trees; and Eric remained dutifully concentrated on the road. No one mentioned their extra passenger whom, lean as he was, was neither weightless nor invisible, stretched across both Sam’s and Kenneth’s laps.

Kenneth’s squabble with Nevada had brought the Beta on edge, his mood turned foul. Back in the streets of North Grove, that hadn’t mattered: they’d been in the open, mapping the town and raiding a few more shops for staples, the archer set on task, exacerbated emotions either kept at bay or channeled on the Walkers that they’d crossed. The enclosed space of their vehicle, however, had aggravated the archer’s scent, and deep, pungent sourness coated their lungs. Dean shifted in his seat.

Kenneth was the type that bordered on quiet — not shy, like Beth, seeking refuge in wordlessness, for, if he did relish the serenity in the stillness of time, needing not to fill the silence, he could very well speak up, mind bluntly expressed; with fists, even: there’d been a time or two... Kenneth was the quiet type that bordered on _Alpha_.

As did half the Betas back at the Waterhouse, to be fair: only the fittest survived. Betas who had not been hardy or resourceful enough had fallen prey to the monsters; even those protected had not always been fortunate... Secretly, Dean felt grateful that both he and Sam were Alphas, bodies and instincts better designed to resist the asperities of their rabid-gone, apocalyptic world.

As Beta as he was, nevertheless, Kenneth White was a remarkable paragon of ‘the fittest’: where most groups were composed of Alphas and Betas, or, more rarely, exclusively of Alphas, Kenneth’s had been solely comprised of Betas — another male, five females and two kids — and he had led them _for months on end_.

There’d been Alphas with them, in the beginning, the archer had admitted, one day they’d been on guard duty, he and Dean.

 _Left Wichita with four other Betas, the day things went wild_ , he’d told the Alpha, faded blue gaze sweeping over grass and shrubs, beyond the camp’s fence. _Joined a group of eleven on the outside..._

Dean had watched the line of trees on the east, the gravity in the Beta’s tone keeping him quiet. Kenneth had been with them for seven weeks, at the time, gone on a raid twice, still observing people more than talking to them.

 _There were two Alphas with them_ , he’d gone on. _For a while, they were in charge_...

Before — before the Apocalypse — there had been both Alphas and Betas leaders, personal skills and competence placed above variations: if physical differences did exist, character traits were less specific; not all Alphas were domineering, not all Betas were cool and collected. It seemed, however, that the Apocalypse had revealed and heightened alphabetic characteristics; and Alphas had taken over in most groups. If not all.

_Didn’t last. Not over two months anyway._

Dean had already gathered that; what had amazed him was that they’d been able to survive on the roads eleven whole months by themselves... _Alphaless_ : clichés be damned, they still held some truth, and even more so today.

 _Teamwork hadn’t been their forte_ , had concluded the archer.

He hadn’t asked and the Beta hadn’t elaborated; but there had been implicit meaning to his words and the more Dean contemplated them, the less he put killing these two Alphas past him. Hell, Kenneth had threatened bodily harm when their path had crossed: assailing Dean from the back, he’d used him as a shield from the rest of his quartet, a knife to his throat. _There’s blood on the blade,_ he’d growled, _so don’t._ Monster blood, that was: he hadn’t even needed to kill him, a knick being as effective.

Kenneth had later conceded it’d been a reckless — albeit, desperate — move: a Beta against four armed Alphas was a lost battle. And that was what had saved the archer’s life: Dean’s awareness that he’d have been better off he’d let them pass, remaining hidden; that that had to be a distraction. And then, Dean had spotted her slender form, crouched in the bushes.

 _We’re not gonna hurt her_ , he’d impulsively let out.

Sam’s sharp hazels had reflexively flicked from tree to tree, inspecting the woods for another threat while the Smith twins had kept their crossbows aimed at them, waiting for the slightest opportunity.

Dean had needed to ask the archers to lower their weapons to persuade the Beta they weren’t the menace he believed them to be. _We don’t go after kids_ , he’d promised, seeing Sam somewhat relaxing when he’d grasped the core of what was happening, _or their fathers_. That last part had been stretched a little and had depended on whether the Beta’d remain bellicose. After a moment, though, he had called the child and a little girl with blond tresses and dark eyes had timidly emerged from the bush, dressed in jeans and a tee a size too large for her bony frame.

 _Go back_ , the Beta had ordered her as she’d warily walked over.

Neither he nor Sam had been at ease with the idea of Caleigh — that had been what he had called her — barely a day over seven, looking for her way ‘back’ alone in the woods, though.

 _We have a camp_ , Sam had told the Beta. _She’d be safe, there_.

 _What do you care?_ he’d asked back, dryly. As if they’d been monsters. Or as bad as them, anyway.

Dean had snapped.

 _She’s a_ child, he’d hissed. _We get you’re trying to protect her. Except you’re not._

That had angered the Beta and he’d pressed the blade a little closer, prompting the twins to raise their bows again.

 _Hey, hey, hey, that’s not gonna help anyone_ , had protested Sam. _We’re not telling you what to do with your daughter, we’re simply offering — because, yeah, she’s just a kid. And it’s gotta be hard for her, being out here with the Walkers..._

Kenneth had not bothered to correct them even after he’d accepted askance their offer, misleading them into believing she was his; yet Dean had not been able to feel vexed upon the discovery of the deceit when he’d heard, a good two weeks later, little Caleigh calling the Beta ‘Unca Ken’: after a year of caring, he’d become somewhat of a paternal figure — for both her and twelve-year-old Elian he’d traveled with.

Kenneth was a protector. At heart. At all costs.

Dean’s grassy eyes drifted to the rearview mirror, and he peered at the Beta. He seemed incapable of keeping his gaze still, casting cagey, pale blue peeks at Sam — to the arm resting on the stranger’s side, the hand casually placed on his shoulder... _Seriously!_ As if Sammy would grope anyone against their will, let alone someone as as helpless! Their passenger may have been an Omega, Kenneth _knew_ Sam; knew he’d never dare do these despicable acts! And that concern was goddamn derisive given he’d been the one to offer shooting an arrow through the man!

There were days the Beta exasperated him — days he had to remember he appreciated the guy, _respected_ him — or so help him, he’d lose it and one of them was gonna end up bleeding out on the floor... with ‘one of them’ plausibly being Dean: he may have been taller and stronger as an Alpha, Kenneth had a fire in him — not wild and irrepressible, flames raging against the walls of his pit; rather, hot and glowing embers he kept in check, the long, even burn fueling every move, every decision, every knock, every kick, keeping the pain at bay and feeding his tenacity.

In some ways, Kenneth was a better Alpha than most Alphas.

In others, Kenneth was one damn, _sexist_ bastard.

A sexist bastard who prefered to see his brother as an _Alpha threat_ rather than... well... maybe not a friend — he and Sammy shared even less than they did; they were a _team_ , though; _campmates_ , the very least!

Dean was grateful when Eric finally left the main road and the pickup started on dirt tracks, sides laced with wild summer grass: they’d be back at camp in less than three, its walls already in view — a long ribbon of wire-mesh fence they’d fringed with rolls and curls of sharp barb wire to keep Walkers, thieves and other hostile beings from getting in. There’d been talks, lately, though, to raise another wall beside it, a barrier to hide away from prying eyes as the mesh left the camp a little too exposed...

Green gaze sweeping over sun-kissed fields, all the way up to the large glass and concrete building in its center, Dean had to agree: the Waterhouse — a name derived from the large, bold _WATERHOUSE CORP._ letters on a post sign next to the gate — was a haven lost in the darkness of the Apocalypse. He, Sammy and the eighteen others they'd banded and traveled with, after the Fall, had chanced on the construction site, practically though not completely finished. It was an intriguing edifice, architecture modern and avant-garde for what had seemed to be an ecologic, bioagricultural research facility — a conclusion they’d reached after exploring the premises, especially when discovering the huge, three-floor greenhouse.

Settling down at the Waterhouse had not been an obvious decision: at the time, the imposing construction had seemed a little too austere, dreary gray concrete contrasting with its sleek, elegant form, the ground, dry and barren; there hadn’t even been a fence, yet. They’d debated the pros and the cons at lengths, that day, well after the afternoon sun had set and the sky had darkened — some had even not wanted to settle; others had expressed concerns; eight year old Mackenzie had ended the matter: too ill to travel, Elias had declared they’d camp there for a week’s time and see from there.

Eighty-four weeks later, they still hadn’t left — better, they had raised the fence themselves, wired the solar panels on the rooftop, started the sophisticated water pump in the basement; they’d even ploughed fields on the sides and created an irrigation system that they had connected to the pump with the parts they’d found in a stockroom, obviously intended for that use.

Overall, the Waterhouse was one badass camp, powered with both water and _electricity_ — even if the electric part consisted in charging the pump and keeping lights on, when and where necessary.

“Heard you picked a stray off the road,” came a cheeky greeting as Dean opened the truck’s door, dark gravel crunching beneath his boots. They had parked next to the other team’s silver Chevy and a yellow Jeep beside it.

Paul, hanging at the back of the SUV, flashed a dazzling grin at the dark-haired Beta as he placed one of the storage boxes in her arms. “We did.”

“ _Sam_ did,” Dean corrected: give credit where credit is due, right?

Rebecca looked over at him, black eyes filled with curiosity. She remained quiet, though, and Dean did not elaborate, his gaze drifting from her face to the tattoo on her arm — a black, sewn-like W, its outer tips curled into wings, over a circle adorned with the words _WATERHOUSE_ , on top, and _APOCALYPSE REBEL_ , at the bottom. That was new.

He vaguely recalled it had been a collective idea — something someone had kid about... probably Cameron, their inventory head slash tattoo artist; and then, one of the teams had raided a tattoo parlor, and, in less than a week, half the Alphas had been sporting a black, winged W on their arm, a badge of pride forever inked, the feeling that they belonged, sharpened: they weren’t merely people stuck together; they were _choosing_ to _be_ together. Over the next few weeks, more and more people had left Cameron’s room, freshly tattooed, to the extent that the Board had felt the need to meddle: newcomers were to wait a period of at least five weeks before being _admissible_ ; minors needed the consent of their guardian or be over sixteen of age.

Not everyone had agreed to the tattoo; others had opted for more a discreet one. Beth, for that matter, had hers on her ankle: Dean had gotten a glimpse a time she’d worn a pair of low-tops.

His gawking caught Rebecca’s eye and her face softened as she glanced at the letter herself. “Week old,” she said as she looked back up.

Paul flashed another of his signature all-white smiles and squeezed her other arm: “Way to go, Re!”

Beth visibly flinched.

 _Knothead_ , mentally swore Dean. It wasn’t pretty and that wasn’t something he’d usually call any other Alpha — and yet, it _so_ fit Paul. “He’s not worth it, Beth,” he whispered. She nodded, eyes glued on the pair. “Come on,” he coaxed, a gentle hand pushing her forward. “Let’s go.”

Beth lowered her head then nodded. He let her trail after Nevada and the Smith twins, who’d barely looked at Rebecca’s tattoo, already moving past the massive glass doors, into the building. He watched her disappear, too, a moment later. _Good girl_.

His gaze drifted then to Sammy and Kenneth who were cautiously getting out of the truck. “Need any help?” he asked over the bed as they manhandle the stranger.

“We’re good,” the Beta tersely quelled his concern.

“He’s pretty light,” added Sam, tone softer.

Dean looked at the man as they moved past the pickup, head lolled back and eyes slightly parted. Sam had tucked his hands under his armpits, and Kenneth was holding his legs at the crook of his knees. He’d forgotten: Omegas were light. Or light _er_.

“Kay,” he mumbled indistinctly.

They headed straight to the building and entered the large, sun-lit hall through the glass doors, polished concrete on the floor reflecting their forms. Sets of tall, empty planters had been placed on both sides of the room, and a row of long white cylinders, somewhat reminiscent of a pan’s flute, each hanging by a thread, descended from the ceiling, the disconnected chandelier hovering over the front desk. Behind it, a large, metallic W had been fastened to the faux wall — a wooden panel that concealed the hallway on the other side — black wings painted on the divider by Cameron, claiming the edifice as _home_. An array of maps covered the back walls, some of the area, others of the towns they’d visited, and a large blackboard had been fixed on the other side of the panel, tasks and duties scribbled all over.

Whoever had designed this place had aimed to impress: the hallway opened onto a small indoor garden, green with different types of bushes, complete with benches and stone paths coiled around a leafy tree. Light spilled from the glass ceiling overhead and a staircase unfolded loosely around the open space. The Board had decided to keep it watered, for the serenity it conveyed. Perhaps even more so because the world beyond their walls was a grim place.

“Who’s he?” asked one of the kids as they approached — _Tristan_ , Dean recalled his name, a ten year-old Alpha boy. He and three other kids were playing in the garden.

“Don’t know yet, bud.”

He regretted the words as soon as he spoke them — that was _not_ what he meant to say to a room of people who were becoming wary of stranger: as the Waterhouse had blossomed, so had the fear that others may attempt to take over their camp, and the the Board had hence ordered teams going on raids to evade contact when possible, to remain evasive when not. These days, newcomers were rarely accepted. And usually brought in blindfolded.

Green eyes flicked back to the dark-haired man. “He’s special,” Dean added to cover his mistake. He heard Kenneth snort.

“He’s someone I wanted to help,” Sam corrected before somebody.

Then somebody took note: “He’s Omega...”

“Just, please, _move_ , people,” barked Kenneth as the garden rustled with gasps and whispers — directly, the hall quieted; and as they crossed over to the darker hallway on their right, people cleared the way before Dean.

The cell room, as they called it, was a bare one, save for the cot against the back wall. At times, concrete floor changed to dark wood; not here. The walls were blank, and harsh, white light came from a row of squares on the ceiling. Compared to rest of the Waterhouse quarters, the room was rather cold, impersonal — all they needed was a jail door and they’d have a pretty cool cell. They’d have to look for a sheriff’s office on their next raid...

Dean leaned against the wall and watched Sam and Kenneth crabbed to the cot. They lowered the man on the mattress and Sam pressed two fingers to the pale throat again, worry creasing his forehead. Dean eyebrows knitted together.

“He’ll be okay, Sammy.”

Kenneth rolled faded blue eyes to the ceiling. Sam’s jaw clenched, though he chose to ignore the pet name: “I try to save him and freaking end up half killing him.” Bitterness pervaded the air.

“He’s still here,” Dean disagreed.

“He was gonna get himself killed, _anyway_ , Sam,” seconded the archer. “If not by the Walkers, by _me_.”

The bitterness stung their tongues.

“Sam —“

The cell door opened before Dean was able to add more, and Tori — representing the Board, he presumed — walked in, followed by Jess and Paul.

“Hey, Tor’,” he greeted her as her honeyed gaze flew to his face and then on to his brother’s and Kenneth’s, and, finally, to the stranger’s.

“I see no one bothered to tie him up,” she observed coolly.

Dean frowned. “He’s Omega,” he protested at the same time Sammy objected, “He’s unconscious.” They’d been raised better than that.

“He’s a _stranger_ ,” the Alpha female reasoned evenly. “One with fresh scratches. He may be infected.”

“He doesn’t have a fever,” Sam persisted — in vain, as Tori carried on, impervious to all forms of pleas:

“Jess will examine him _after_ he’s been tied, Sam. We’ll see what _she_ has to say.”

Bitterness thickened the air, disagreeably tart, as Sam stared at the Alpha female, a tall woman in her fifties, long toffee hair streaked with gray. She gazed back at him, not the least bit phased: there was no arguing with her.

Paul stepped forward. “I got zips.”

Gaze flicking to the white strips of plastic, Tori nodded. “Arms behind his back,” she specified.

Sam refused to help. Kenneth, too, seemed ill-at-ease. And Dean — he got that — he did: tying up helpless Omegas? Bobby would have rolled in his grave. The thing was, he got Tori, too: the man was a stranger, and that came before whatever variation, for the good of the camp. That was why _she_ was on the Board.

“Okay, Tor’.” Dean kneeled beside the man as Sammy watched, eyes wide.

“What’s next?” Sam scoffed, arms crossed against his chest. “ _Kids?_ ”

Sarcasm seeped into the bitterness. Jess cringed. Paul seemed unaffected.

“Get over it, Winchester,” he dismissed a little too mockingly. “You weren’t objecting this badly when Re was locked in here.”

Sam frowned. “Rebecca’s practically as old as I am.” And he hadn’t objected at all.

Paul raised an eyebrow and looked at Sam, eyes sweeping over his tall, athletic body. “Oh.” At 6’5, Sam towered above everybody; he’d mistaken him for someone older. “Well, my point, _kid_.”

Sam rolled his eyes and Dean snapped a “Shut up” as Tori intervened, a tinge of exasperation bleeding through her voice: “Please, gentlemen: let’s try being productive.”

Sam’s expression soured yet he seemed done and remained quiet. Dean looked back at the man on the cot, eyes still slightly parted, a rash on his cheekbone and a cut over his brow. He slipped his arms behind his back and gingerly rolled his slender body forward, fingers grazing against the knots of his spine through his tee. 

“Careful,” breathed Jess — though, whether for the Omega or because she feared he was infected, he wondered. Not that he hadn’t been gentle or that the man posed a threat, still out cold. He watched Paul zip tie his wrist together, under his watch, noticing how bony they were.

“There...” They lay him back on the cot, Tori visibly satisfied.

“As the four of you agreed to bring him back to camp, you can watch him. Come fetch me or Elias when he wakes.” Her face darkened as she paused, however, and her eyes narrowed. “ _If_ he wakes. Human, that is.”

Six pairs of eyes fleeted back to the stranger and, for a moment, they all gazed at the man on cot. He was a pretty thing, a pretty type of handsome, cheekbones razor sharp and lips a perfect shade of red, Omega traits so achingly breathtaking, even beneath a layer of dirt and a mop of black, tangled hair.

Tori sighed. She left the cell room with a stern expression.

“He’s all yours, Jess,” breathed Kenneth after the door closed. He looked even more on edge as he watched the Beta cross the room and sit beside the man on the cot, her bag lowered to the ground.

A frown darkened her face: “He looks bad.” She checked his pulse the way Sammy had, then observed the cut and the rash on his face. “These are recent. It seems like he tried to get them clean...”

“Are you not going to disinfect them?” Sam asked, the bitterness still there though tempered.

Jess looked back at him, remorse clear in her eyes: “Orders are not to waste anything on someone who might wake up wicked...”

Sam’s jaw clenched again and sourness heavily permeated the air.

“Just get on with it, Jess,” groaned Kenneth, his and Sam’s scents intermingling terribly.

Jess’s gaze fell back onto the Omega. She reached for the hem of his tee and rolled the garment, tugging on it sides, revealing dark bruises and chafed skin, ribs all but too visible.

“Fuck.”

Sam blanched. “Did _I_ do that?” he rasped. Dean reflexively grasped his brother’s arm: that was worse than tying up an Omega.

Jess stared at the body before her. “These look a few days old,” she said, motioning purplish blooms. “These, though...” She indicated blue, discolored areas. “They’re newer.”

Sam looked horribly ill. Big brother instincts rose: “You meant to help him,” tried to soothe Dean, squeezing his arm. Sam’s hazels were clouded with pain.

“Woah, lady!” protested sharply Paul as Kenneth barked Jess’s name: she had pushed back the hem of his jeans, exposing skin too close to his crotch.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Jess snapped back, “I’m just checking his scar, not molesting him!”

That quieted the two of them instantly and they all peered at the mark — a double H burnt red on the pale flesh. _A band brand_. Apparently, they were not the only camp that had one; except theirs was way more wicked — and a lot less painful.

“Didn’t you guys say he was alone when you radioed in?” queried Jess, eyes flicking from one face to another.

They nodded: they hadn’t seen anybody else in North Grove; and he definitely hadn’t been waiting for anyone.

The frown on Jess’s face deepened.

Maybe he’d gotten lost. Or everyone else in his camp was dead.

“Jess, just cover back the lad,” Kenneth told her, voice clipped. “He’s got too many rashes to tell whether he’s okay, anyway: getting him naked won’t help you decide he’s not waking up wicked.”

“He’s right, Jess,” Dean agreed. “Let’s just sit him through the whole quarantaine period like Tori will tell us to when you report to her.”

Jess seemed to hesitate though, in the end, she relented. Even when Sam asked her to leave her bag down. She sighed and left the room wordlessly.

Sam took over her place on the cot and looked into the bag, retrieving a bag of cotton balls and what Dean guessed to be bactericide. He moisturized the wad and, with light, feathered brushes, disinfected the cut over the Omega’s eyebrow. Dean watched, practically mesmerized by the gentle drags of soft cotton, his brother’s extreme gentleness appeasing.

Paul shifted and seated himself at the foot of the cot. “Would be a pity if he woke up wicked,” he breathed, gaze captivated by Sammy’s ministrations. He placed a soothing hand on his leg.

“Why?” grunted Kenneth, breaking the peace.

They all stopped and stared at him, hazel eyes narrowed, green rolling and blue twinkling with incredulity:

“What do you mean, ‘why’?” — “Maybe because he’s an Omega?” — “What the fuck is your problem, dude?”

“ _You_ ‘re my problem,” Kenneth growled back. “All of you!”

Dean crossed his arms: “What the hell, Kenneth?”

The Beta’s jaw clenched, glaring back at the three Alphas, scents tart and seething, filling the room with a pungent stench. Somehow, Kenneth seemed to see them as a threat.

A whimper broke the silence.

  


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	4. In Which Castiel Wakes Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hey," he protested. "You’re not one helpless little kitten…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I said I'd have something up by last January... I didn't mean to lie — but between school and a complicated relationship, I barely had any time to write. Now that exams are over, I am hoping to be able to have a couple of chapters up during the summer, but I never was the prolific type, and chapters might be short... this one is barely over 1.5K.
> 
> A very warm thank you to those who are still following and to those who asked for updates even when I wasn't responding!

  


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It was a soft, wretched mewl, barely exhaled — a whispered wail, the Omega’s brows furrowed as he attempted to wake. Greens, hazels and blues all flicked to the man, breath bated as eyelids twitched and long, dark lashes fluttered, back arched slightly as life seemed to seep back into him… A sliver of deep, icy blue irises appeared beneath hooded eyes, and Dean drew closer, their color impossibly vivid. Again, his gaze traced over the sharp cheekbones, down the bridge of his pretty nose to the chapped, cherry lips: he’d hardly ever seen an Omega other than on glossy magazine covers, especially so close, and _never_ male — those had been extremely rare to begin with. He knew, naturally, that Omegas were designed to be pretty, highly _coveted_ — hell, he’d jacked off to every Omega model and actress there had been, back before the Fall; and yet, he’d never expected to feel that… _pull_?

Sam, who had kneeled back at the head of the cot, was grazing his cheek: “Hey there,” he coaxed, tone ever so gentle. 

The Omega moaned again, head rolling. The frown on his pretty face deepened as confusion bloomed from the depth of the chilled water pools of his gaze. 

Paul squeezed his leg. “Come on, sweet’…”

Kenneth’s stinging scent sharpened: “You two better —”

“Dude —” Dean snapped as Sam barely restrained himself: “For Christ’s sake, Kenneth, he’s _not_ wicked!” 

Except all hell broke loose, then — bitter fear pervaded the air, and before they’d even properly registered it, the Omega was fiercely thrashing, a fury of twists and kicks anew. 

“Oh, Hell —”

He’d kicked Paul in the chin. The Alpha instantly tripped back and fell into Dean. Breath knocked out, Dean went down, too, and hit the concrete floor. He growled from the pain and pushed the other man off: _“Fuck!”_

Seconds later, Sam snarls filled the room — the little bastard had dug his teeth in the arm wrapped around his chest, wild and writhing as he tried to wrest himself free from his grip —

“Little b…!”

Kenneth made a grab for his legs. The Omega managed to jerk one away from him, nevertheless, and, damn feral cat that he was, began to knee him in the head — _repeatedly_.

“Get his leg!” 

Paul was faster — rolling back to his feet, he seized the thrashing limb and pinned it against his chest. 

Dean was smarter — dark metal caught his eyes in the contents of Jess’s spilt medical bag, and he grasped the gun instead. 

For the briefest second, the scene seemed to decelerate; colors grew sharper, richer, noise drowned in their vividity as the metallic tang of panic deepened, tinged with notes of damp wood, burnt cinnamon and dry leather, a hint of something more earthy peeking beneath. In the commotion, the cot had been knocked down and over, pushed back against the wall. Dark indigo efflorescences glared on pale, white skin, the Omega’s thin, wiry body, twisted in Sam’s hold, his tee riding up. 

No hesitation: Dean swiftly straddled the man, knee folded down on his navel, fingers lacing into his grimy, inky hair. He snapped his head back, drawing teeth away from Sam’s arm, and pressed the muzzle of the gun on his forehead. Lush, green grass dipped into clear, summery pools, and Dean locked his gaze on those large, aquarelle eyes. The twitch of his finger froze over the trigger. 

And then the world crashed back into motion: “Fuck, _no_ , Dean, DON’T! — Get _off_ him, Winchester! — He’s just scared!” 

Sam’s voice. Kenneth’s. The Omega had stopped contorting, staring back as though he was waiting for him to press that trigger, a hard, resigned gleam in his eyes. Perhaps he was not wicked; and yet, the horror of the Apocalypse had doubtlessly taken its toll him…

“Come on, Winchester,” wheedled Paul, misplaced cheer seeping through his tone, “Lower the gun...” 

Dean bristled, allergic to the Goddamn Alpha and his carefree attitude: _no way_ — he refused to back off, simply because _he_ ’d asked him to. His jaw clenched. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Sammy disapproved, repressing a growl. “Get off him.” 

He kept his gaze on the Omega’s doe eyes. Okay, fine. “Are you going to play nice?” 

_“Are you frickin’ kidding me!”_

And Hell broke loose all over — the Omega bucked and hitched fiercely again, and Kenneth — Kenneth let go off his leg. Kenneth let go off his leg and elbowed _him_ in the head. Dean staggered back. 

“The fuck, Kenneth!” Had he freaking lost it? 

The Beta ignored him, did not even cast an eye his way. “Both of you, off!” he hollered at Sam and Paul, _“Off!”_

He never expected the Alphas to obey — and yet, Dean watched, shocked, as they did; as Sam and Paul backed away, leaving Kenneth between them and the Omega. They even let the Beta cool off for a moment, hands held before them to placate his anger — as if to prove they weren’t the threat the _Omega_ actually was, his back against the cot, his legs tightly knit together, knees drawn to his heaving chest… looking spooked and wary…

...so maybe he wasn’t really a threat. Dean met Kenneth’s steely glare, flashing with blatant disapprobation. The Beta was a protector — he’d attested to that over and over again, and it seemed even truer with anyone who was not Alpha. 

“Where’d ya get the gun, Winchester?” 

Dean dropped his gaze to the small firearm in his hand. He had instinctively lowered it, placed his finger off the trigger. What did they think? That he kept pistols hidden on him? In the camp? 

“Jess’s bag,” he retorted. 

Sam looked startled: “Jess has a gun?” he parroted. 

Paul’s lips twitched cheekily. 

“Well, keep the damn thing aimed down,” the Beta barked. 

He snorted: as if he needed to be told. 

Sam sighed, exasperated. He kneeled down, sitting on his haunches, and looked at the Omega; the Omega looked back at him. “Hey,” he greeted him, tone low and gentle. “I’m Sam.” When the Omega remained quiet, he went on, eyes flicking to the man who still stood back to him, protective: “This is Kenneth.” Then nodded towards the other Alpha: “And that’s Paul, over there.” 

Paul gave him a mock three-finger salute. 

The Omega observed the both of them. When his gaze fell, at last, on Dean, Dean sat back on his heels, too. 

“Hey,” he croaked, a little ill-at-ease — those vivid blue eyes seemed capable to bore holes. “I’m Dean.” 

The Omega offered no name back, merely watching them with flagrant misgiving. 

“We won’t hurt you,” Sam went on. 

No one missed the way the Omega’s eyes flew to the gun. 

“Hey, you looked like you’d woken up wicked,” protested Dean. 

The Omega did not seem the least bit convinced: “My hands are tied.” 

At least, that’s what Dean pieced together, the words harsh and hoarse, voice coarse from disuse. He straightened a little. He noticed Paul did too. “That was a precaution,” he clarified as Sammy breathed a not very quiet, “Not everyone agreed to that.” 

Still, the Omega accused: “You have assailed and abducted me.” 

A flash of pain darkened Sam’s face. “We meant to help… Those Walkers were gonna get you.” 

That seemed to quiet the man a moment. Maybe he’d see they were the good guys. 

“So I am free to leave,” he concluded with that damn coffee ground voice. 

“Absolutely,” Sammy was prompt to agree. 

Dean and Paul weren’t as positive and they exchanged a glance — the Board did not let people come and leave the Waterhouse as they pleased, for one… Besides, no one had ever wanted to leave their little haven once they had been let in. 

“Then I wish to go,” the Omega persisted. 

“It doesn’t work that way, Sweet’,” Paul protested. 

Kenneth growled. “Will you fucking drop the ‘Sweet’, Paul.” 

The Alpha just rolled his eyes. “Still doesn’t work that way.” 

The Omega watched him warily. 

“Look, you _can_ leave,” Dean chipped in, “We just got to know you won’t be a threat to this camp.” 

Those piercing blue eyes looked at him as though he was crazy. 

“Hey,” he protested, “It took three Alphas and a Beta to stop you from thrashing — you’re not one helpless little kitten…”

The Omega seemed to concede because he didn’t object. 

“Do you have a name?” Sam asked. 

Again, the Omega’s gaze became assessing. 

“Doesn’t matter what name you give them,” Kenneth told him, and Dean didn’t miss how he’d distanced himself from _them_. “Anything you choose will be better than ‘Sweet’ or ‘Omega’.” 

Both Dean and Paul rolled their eyes. 

The Omega — the _stranger_ — appeared to reflect over his words a moment. His lips parted before he closed them and opened them again: “Castiel,” he finally croaked. “My name is Castiel.” 

Although it did have an Omega feel to it, Dean had never heard the name before — then again, he was not familiar with male Omega names. It was a pretty one, in any case, whether real or fake.

Sammy cracked a small smile at the man. “Pleased to meet you, Castiel.”

  


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End file.
